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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28901937">Shibden Theatre Company</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celine_Lister/pseuds/Celine_Lister'>Celine_Lister</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gentleman Jack (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Brief Mention of Anton Chekhov, F/F, Modern AU, Oneshot, Smut, Stage Manager!Anne, Theatre Fic, theater fic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:27:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,093</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28901937</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celine_Lister/pseuds/Celine_Lister</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Anne is the beleaguered and fiery stage manager of Shibden Theatre Company. When a beautiful blonde saunters into her theatre, she can’t help herself. It’s only later that Anne realizes she’s just met Ann Walker, her new investor and partner.</p><p>The Theatre AU we need.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anne Lister (1791-1840)/Ann Walker (1803-1854)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>66</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>142</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“We’re firing this goddamn prop master!” Anne shouted as she kicked her way into the cluttered closet. “It’s a fucking mess in here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, yes ma’am,” Washington, her squirrelly assistant said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Organize this,” she said with a tired wave of her hand. “Be gone in thirty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, ma’am, of course, ma’am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a grunt and a clap on the shoulder, Anne left him to the chaos. Her mind felt as disorganized as the prop closet, and she sank into one of the audience seats. Not for the first time, she cursed the day she’d first learned what a stage manager did. Why hadn’t her drama teacher warned her? The long hours, sure, but the mental toll as well. The organization and the coddling and the boundary-enforcement. What she should’ve asked, Anne now knew, was what </span>
  <em>
    <span>didn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> a stage manager do? Between the props, the lights, the sounds, the costumes, the fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>actors, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the director, the endless meetings and reports and cue after cue after bloody cue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She did love this old theatre though. This ridiculous old black box that scraped together rent every month, a rather significant miracle, and alternated between packed houses and empty, echoing matinees. Shibden was her baby, her dream, the most significant being in her life. Anne had cut her teeth on this concrete floor, the old workshop around the corner, the cramped tech booth with its finicky sound board. Somehow, they actually had a bit of reputation, and Anne intended to keep it that way. If only this new business partner weren’t so damn mysterious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’d never even revealed their name, actually, which had been rather tantalizing at first. Anne needed the backing desperately, and Washington had some kind of connection. One of the board members - that Priestley woman - she had something to do with it as well. But any time she’d pressed him for more information, he’d smiled that knowing smile and scuttled off to sweep or patch or run lines. It was starting to get annoying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tilting her head back, Anne stared into the black void of the ceiling. This was where she’d first met Mariana, where she’d ravished Maria, where she’d tried to woo Vere. It had all fallen apart, just like the old catwalk, the time Anne had broken her leg and watched her blood seep into the floor. The Shibden Theatre was quite literally full of her blood, sweat, and tears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, however, she was surrounded by incompetence. Washington was passable, but any passable Assistant Stage Manager would move on to a bigger position soon. This property master, this Hinscliffe, was a total loss. The costumer not much better, even worse than the sound designer and the fight choreographer. Their last production - an ill-advised, modern take on </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hamlet</span>
  </em>
  <span> - had been a massive flop. Now they were in the red, and Anne was desperate. When Eliza Priestley had intimated she knew a potential investor, Anne had no choice but to pursue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Knock knock,” a shy voice called. Anne shook off her pessimistic thoughts and turned to the door - the bright light of day filled the dark space, backlighting the slim figure of the intruder. “Can I come in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door swung closed behind the stranger, and Anne’s lips parted. She was stunning. That was perhaps the only word for it. Gorgeous, maybe. If Anne felt poetic, she might say “ravishing.” Curly blonde hair pulled demurely back behind her ears, giving way to a perfectly pink cardigan over a blindingly white shirt. Anne tried to avoid noticing the curve of the woman’s hips in her skirt, the shape of her legs, the delicate, doe-like step of her feet as she inched closer. She had the beauty and shyness of an aspiring actor come to scope out a potential job. A devilish grin curled across Anne’s face. This could be fun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a dingy old theatre,” Anne drawled, closing the distance. “Unaccompanied like this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I -”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your agent waiting for you? Maybe a boyfriend?” Anne asked, hiking her foot up on a riser and studying the devastating specimen before her. Actors dropped in like this sometimes, hoping to leave a headshot and take a look at the audition schedule. Anne hadn’t seen this one yet, but she knew the type. Young, eager, impressionable. “Girlfriend?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She -” she shook her head, flushing and biting her lip. “We just broke up, if you must know .”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pity.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anne almost couldn’t believe how easy this was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve got a -” the blonde stranger reached out to stroke Anne’s shoulder. “There. A splinter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Happens.” Anne shrugged. “I do tend to get rather dirty around here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I bet,” she said softly, almost breathless. Her hand smoothed along the plane of Anne’s arm, then she seemed to catch herself and pulled away. Anne caught her hand midair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I didn’t know any better,” Anne said. “I’d think you were trying to flirt with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Anne even realized, their lips were crashing together. She made a small sound of surprise, angling into the kiss as cold hands cupped her face and slipped into her hair. Eyes still open, Anne checked the rest of the space - empty, for now. She took the woman’s hips in her hands and led her slowly back toward the prop closet. She’d told Washington to clear out forty-six minutes ago, and he was nothing if not punctual. They’d be alone. Not likely that anyone else would root around in there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh!” The blonde’s back hit one of the overstuffed shelves, and their lips broke apart. “I’m so-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t apologize,” Anne panted, diving back in and pulling the stranger’s supple body flush to her own. Their tongues slid together, their bodies rolled in unison, and Anne had to break away to breathe. “You’re so hot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are,” the actress said, her chest heaving as she slipped one hand along Anne’s arm. “What are we doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anne kissed the length of her flushed neck, slipped one hand around her ass, grinding one muscled thigh between her legs. She whispered hotly in her ear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I - uh, I - oh, can you - fu- fuck me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anne moved back, just enough to catch this stranger’s eyes. How long had it been since she’d had a totally nameless fumble like this? She sighed. How long since she’d seen such sincere, yearning, deep blue eyes? It would be a pity when Anne would have to turn the poor girl out; she could hardly work with an actor she’d already slept with. Even one as lovely as this. Biting her lip, the blonde traced a single finger over Anne’s clavicle. Maybe Anne could make an exception.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure?” Anne asked, softly and seriously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am. I- yes, I am. Are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck yes,” Anne growled, crashing into her once again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their lips met in a series of fiery kisses as Anne slipped one hand below the hemline of that tight little skirt. They moaned in unison as Anne’s fingertips found damp lace. Anne longed to thrust inside, to claim this little woman and her crown of golden curls, to strip her naked and lick her clean. Instead, Anne made do with slow, purposeful strokes, augmented by the breathy moans and tightening fingers of the woman in her arms. All too soon, she was curling and cursing, shaking in that sublime way as Anne kissed her neck and jaw and cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At last, the woman sagged in relief, looping her arms around Anne’s neck as she gasped air into her lungs. With a single finger, Anne tilted her sweet, innocent, flushed face upward and caught her perfect lips in a slow, sensual kiss. When her delicate hands moved toward Anne’s belt, she caught them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m alright.” Anne kissed her forehead. “Can I see you again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Depends. Will you tell me your name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Depends,” Anne said cheekily. “Who are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ann Walker,” she answered, a soft smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “I was - uh, Mrs. Priestley said- I’m here to talk to someone about the investment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, fuck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Navigating a new business arrangement was never easy, but did Ann really have to add a prop-room-fuck into the mix? Their relationship had only gone downhill since that day. Ann was torn, constantly between awe of the handsome, determined Stage Manager/Owner and utter fury with the ridiculous, overly proud woman who seemed to block her at every step. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Shibden would not mount a musical this season. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>, they did not host comedy nights. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes,</span>
  </em>
  <span> they would take several thousand pounds from Ann’s checkbook. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What had she been </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinking</span>
  </em>
  <span> on that first day? Ann could only assume she had actually lost her mind for however long they’d been wrapped up in each other. For some reason, she’d assumed the owner would be a man, some stodgy old bloke to go with the stodgy old plays Shibden kept producing. Instead, she’d found this delicious hunk of muscle and black cloth - a stage hand, she’d assumed, or maybe a carpenter. Surely the theatre owner didn’t hang about the building in grubby work pants, especially not in the customary all-black of the crew. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, yet again, Ann had let herself go at the first sight of a handsome butch. She’d lost all reason - she’d kissed Anne first! And totally sober. It was so unlike her. It was something she might’ve dreamed about doing, but never actually tried. There was just something about Anne Lister that set her entire body on fire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Currently, that fire was an angry one. Much less enjoyable than the one in the prop room all those months ago. This production meeting was already too bloody long, and Ann had inadvertently managed to sit directly next to the dragon herself. Anne always towered over these meetings, dominating the conversation and sulking when the designers overruled her. Ann usually stayed quiet, speaking up only when she felt truly compelled. Tonight, she was more interested in keeping her knee from brushing against Anne’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was ridiculous, the electricity that passed between them. Totally improper and inconvenient. Ann was trying to strike out on her own, to find a passion project that would eat up her time and ease her agoraphobia. Instead she’d fallen into the first strong arms she’d come across, and she’d been paying for it ever since. How could she expect Anne to respect her as a partner when she knew what Ann looked like during an </span>
  <em>
    <span>orgasm</span>
  </em>
  <span>? How could Ann hope to run a theatre company with the only woman who’d ever made her feel alive?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The things Anne had done to her body - Ann felt a shiver every time she remembered. Not that she cared to remember all that often. Most nights she resisted the urge. Well, some nights. At least once a week she did </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> think about the press of Anne Lister’s lips and the strong curl of her hand. The other six nights, well… Ann was only human.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not sitting through anymore of this postmodernist shit,” Anne said, her arms folded resolutely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I’m telling you we can’t afford to do Chekhov,” the costumer protested. “The petticoats alone -”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“People come to see what they know,” Anne said firmly. “The name’s got to be recognizable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nobody’s heard of fucking Chekhov,” the acne-faced sound designer muttered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Anne roared, leaning forward, her broad shoulder brushing against Ann’s. “If they haven’t heard of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Three Sisters</span>
  </em>
  <span>, maybe I don’t want them in my theatre.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’ve got money, Lister,” the producer spat. “Something we’re in short supply of, I’ll remind you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s why we have Miss Walker,” Anne said facetiously, wrapping an arm around Ann’s shoulders. “Can’t she underwrite anything we like?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just don’t think it’s -”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How are we going to compete with television if we’re always dreaming of Moscow?” Ann said under her breath, surprising herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’d you say?” Anne asked, retracting her arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“People want something different. Something exciting. Something new.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I disagree.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were sparring. Dancing. Closing in on each other. Soon enough, they’d explode in one of their now-famous screaming matches. Anne felt a tingle of excitement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They didn’t come out for </span>
  <em>
    <span>Uncle Vanya</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and they won’t come out for this,” Ann said pointedly, referencing the show the company had produced last season; she’d been told most nights there were more people onstage than in the audience. “We’ve got to rebrand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s wrong with classics?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re boring!” Ann laughed helplessly, bitterly. “The actors can barely stand it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t make art for </span>
  <em>
    <span>actors,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Anne spat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t make </span>
  <em>
    <span>art</span>
  </em>
  <span> at all,” Ann shot back. “You scribble and scowl and call cues.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anne shot to her feet, her chair scraping back loudly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t be insulted in my own fucking theatre!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s my theatre now,” Ann said, rising to her feet and looking up bravely at the stage manager; was she always this tall? Her nose always so long? Something about the set of her jaw, the intense furrow of her brow - Ann leaned in, closer to those perfectly formed lips. “I’m not sitting through eight bloody weeks of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Three</span>
  </em>
  <span> bloody </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sisters.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>our</span>
  </em>
  <span> theatre, baby,” Anne growled. “Everything at Shibden goes through </span>
  <em>
    <span>me. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The sooner you figure that out, the sooner the rest of us can start getting some actual work done around here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fighting back tears, Ann turned on her heel and stormed out of the room. Through the green room and into the prop storage, she fumed and cursed and berated herself for ever agreeing to this. She used to love theatre of all sorts, but now she regretted getting involved in any of this nonsense. It was too much, all of this work and shouting and frustration. She kicked herself for getting caught up in it. In theatre and plays and Anne Lister and her fucking pride. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her fists were still clenched when a sharp knock sounded on the door. Anne’s stony face appeared, her eyes a silent question. Ann nodded, and the stage manager slipped into the cramped closet. This wasn’t their first row, but it was the only time Anne had sought her out afterward. Ann felt her defenses weaken slightly - perhaps it was the concerned furrow of Anne’s brow or the tentative way she folded her hands in front of her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ann, I -”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t speak to me,” Ann breathed, lurching forward to grab hold of the front of that stark, black shirt and crash her lips into Anne’s. All that anger had to go somewhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pressed forward, backing Anne into the closed door and grinding against her lithe body. Even with the distress and the tears, Ann felt a sense of relief. Finally - </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally</span>
  </em>
  <span> - she had Anne’s hands on her hips again, her tongue in her mouth, her low moans in her ears. Anne was already pushing up her skirt, palming along Ann’s thighs. She pulled back, dark eyes searching Ann’s; Ann bit her lip, unsure what to say. Would they make this same mistake again? Would she ever forgive herself for giving in? Would she survive if she didn’t?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A low growl rumbled in Anne’s throat, and she dropped to her knees. Heart pounding in her ears, Ann let her push her skirt up to her waist and her panties down to her ankles. The tenderness with which Anne lifted each of her feet to remove the now-ruined lace took Ann’s breath away. Were they still angry? Anne lifted her leg onto one broad, strong shoulder, and Ann saw stars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck!” She gasped, one hand fisting in Anne’s dark hair. She felt teeth gently nip at the inside of her thigh. A silent message: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Be quiet. </span>
  </em>
  <span>She whispered, “please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If there was ever anything better than this, Ann didn’t know. She could barely stay upright, had to lean into the dirty corner for balance, but she felt more like she was flying. Two strong hands held her steady, while that devilish tongue lapped and sucked and broke her apart. Her head spun with a thousand questions - again? How did it happen so quickly? What was it about Anne Lister that made her lose her head? Was she really going to come in this prop closet </span>
  <em>
    <span>again?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anne,” she warned, her heel digging into Anne’s back and her release coiling tightly in her gut. “Anne, I - uh, I - fuck! Oh, I - oh!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a shudder and a gasp, she shattered. It was all she could do to keep from falling over, one hand tangled in those dark locks as Anne eased every drop of pleasure from here. When she finally released Anne’s head, the stage manager sat back onto the floor in front of her, a satisfied grin on her glistening face. Then she cried out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, fuck!” Anne tossed a stray rat trap away. “Fucking hell.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come here,” Ann laughed, shaking her head at their ridiculous surroundings. “Can I - please?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wordlessly, Anne got to her feet, wrapping one arm around Ann’s waist. Her hips pressed into Ann’s as she whispered softly in her ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only because I think I’ll die if you don’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The euphoria that streaked through Ann’s body - surely that was normal. Anyone who got to touch someone for the first time must feel this same excitement and desire and overwhelming joy. There wasn’t anything special about Anne Lister, right? Ann couldn’t acknowledge the truth of it, the weight of the connection between them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead of thinking, Ann wrenched open Anne’s trousers, thrusting her hand roughly into the tight boxers within. Anne grunted softly, an innocent and vulnerable kind of sound that inexplicably made Ann’s heart ache. Hadn’t she just screamed at this woman in front of a dozen people? Why was she so thrilled to bring their lips together and swallow her desperate sounds? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right there,” Anne panted, rolling her hips into Ann’s touch. Ann moved lower, along her wet center, but Anne froze. “Don’t - just - where you -”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Ann soothed, tracing firm circles over Anne’s clit. “Like that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Anne sighed, a slack sort of smile spreading across her face. “Oh fuck, fuck yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ann’s chest felt tight with terror, with excitement, with arousal. She kissed Anne’s strong neck, urging her fingers faster until she felt her strong body seize in her arms. Still half-confused and more than a little proud, Ann continued her light strokes until Anne coughed and curled a hand around her wrist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m alright.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, yeah, I -” Ann pulled her hand away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Anne said, shaking her head and fastening her trousers. “Uh, I -”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was it, wasn’t it? The moment of truth. Ann couldn’t bear it. Whatever Anne was going to say next - that strained tone, the unhappy set of her brow, the way she avoided Ann’s eyes. She searched desperately for something to say, anything to delay the inevitable. Ann couldn’t go back to life before Anne Lister, before Shibden and rehearsals and their arguments. She tugged her skirt down, reached for her panties on the floor, and made a decision. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know what show we should do next.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anne had that playful smirk on, the one that usually made Ann furious. Ann kicked the forgotten rat bait and draped an arm around Anne’s neck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>The Mousetrap.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for reading!</p><p>This idea struck me yesterday, and I couldn’t stop writing it. I know Ann seems a bit forward, but I’m channeling the feisty Ann we see in the beginning of episode 8 and the one in Anne’s diaries when they butt heads. We know Ann Walker is secretly a total badass.</p><p>Hope y’all enjoyed ☺️</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Late. Always fucking late. Ann could never arrive anywhere on time. It didn’t bode well with her new commitment to rehearsals; she’d agreed to take a more active role in this production since <em> The Mousetrap </em>was her idea. It had gone - well, it wasn’t great. Ann was terrible at keeping track of time, and she was still new to these Theatre Rules Anne kept introducing.</p><p>
  <em> Rule 1: Early is on time. On time is late. Late is fired. </em>
</p><p>Ann was learning.</p><p>She slipped into the rehearsal room with sixty seconds to spare. A smirk tugged at the stage manager’s lips as Ann dropped into her seat. A flush washed over Ann’s body, but she shook it off. No more, she told herself sternly. None of that funny business. That steamy, toe-curling, mouth-watering business. Absolutely none of it. They hadn’t done more than talk in the weeks since that fiery production meeting, and Ann was trying to keep it that way. She really did want <em> The Mousetrap </em>to be a success, and she couldn’t afford to get distracted again. </p><p>“On your feet,” Washington said politely. “Here we go.”</p><p>Ann watched as the actors moved through their customary physical and vocal warm-ups. She sighed softly, wishing Anne were the one leading the stretches today. Those blessed days that Anne limbered up the actors were paradise - lithe arms stretching to the ceiling, hips gyrating, her low voice hooting and hollering. Sometimes Anne bent so low that her ass pressed against her black pants and Ann could see the outline of her boxers.</p><p>“Almost late,” Anne said softly, breaking Ann from her daydreams. “I would’ve had to lock you out, Miss Walker.”</p><p>“I’ve learned my lesson” Ann said with a smile, remembering the times she’d showed up one minute late. </p><p>“There’s a lot I could teach you.” Anne rapped her knuckle on Ann’s script binder. “If you’d let me.”</p><p>It was the kind of line meant to stop hearts. These lines always worked on Ann - she’d be replaying Anne’s exact wording, the set of her lips, the light in her eyes for days. Ann could barely recount the plot of this play, but she had every one of Anne Lister’s movements memorized. </p><p>“I’m sure you-”</p><p>“Alright you louts,” Anne bellowed, winking to Ann as she turned away. “We’re still - somehow - on that stupid bloody scene.”</p><p>
  <em> Rule 2: Don’t talk to the stage manager during rehearsal. </em>
</p><p>Ann chose her seat wisely. They had the stage in a thrust position - audience on three sides - and the stage manager’s table sat directly in front of the middle group of seats. Ann sat two rows back, the first riser, far enough to be appropriate but close enough that she could watch Anne Lister at work.</p><p>Not that she - </p><p>Well.</p><p>Of course she would watch Washington work as well.</p><p>It wasn’t - </p><p>Ann wasn’t just watching Anne work. It was about the whole process. The director and the actors and the designers were fascinating, but Ann already understood their jobs. It was this stage management thing that drew her in. Those tiny symbols she scrawled across her script. The meticulous timekeeping. The authority with which she commanded the room. Even the director - Ann’s cousin of some kind, old Mrs. Rawson - deferred to Anne. Mrs. Rawson, as she demanded to be called, spent more time cracking dirty jokes than she did on stagecraft.</p><p>Or, Ann amended, perhaps it just seemed that way. Large and grey-haired and throaty-laughed, Mrs. Rawson rarely rose from her seat during rehearsal. She could communicate with Anne with a wave of her hand or a shake of her head; Ann was still trying to parse the language between them.</p><p>With the polite and organized Sam Washington, Anne was very direct. They used words Ann didn’t recognize, but they didn’t have the same camaraderie that Anne had with Mrs. Rawson. Strictly professional, Anne and Sam; Ann wondered why Anne never gave her the same treatment.</p><p>With actors, Anne was short and specific. Occasionally, she flirted with an actress or two, but even that seemed to be happening less and less frequently. Most of the time, Anne kept quiet, offering opinions and directions only when necessary. Anne was so precise with her words that she managed to guide the entire rehearsal like a maestro before her orchestra. Before this investment, Ann didn’t know what stage managers even did. Now she couldn’t imagine the theatre without one.</p><p>In truth, Anne appeared to be in charge of nearly everything. She was the single thread that connected every piece of the production and pulled them all into line. A few days ago, Ann had stayed late to watch Anne type up her daily report. The detail alone sent Ann’s head spinning, and that was the abridged version. Ann couldn’t hope to make sense of the handwritten version in the thick, leather-bound volume that sat at Anne’s elbow. </p><p>“Break!” Anne called crisply, interrupting Mrs. Rawson mid-sentence. Juggling the union schedule and all the breaks was just one of Anne’s talents. “Fifteen.”</p><p>“Thank you fifteen,” the room chorused back.</p><p>Ann smiled in spite of herself. It felt like a secret club, these theatre rules. That dark head of hair spun around to face her, and Ann’s heart stopped. Still, after months, Ann couldn’t believe how stunning this woman was. Sharp jawline and dark eyes and perfect lips meant for smiling and - best not to think about that now.</p><p>“I was wondering, Miss Walker,” she said, standing and stretching her arms above her head, “if I could buy you a drink this evening.”</p><p>“Maybe I have plans,” Ann said, barely keeping herself from screaming in the affirmative.</p><p>“Maybe you do.” Anne shrugged. “I’m betting you don’t.”</p><p>Oh, and lines like that sent Ann right back in the opposite direction. Sure, Anne was handsome and capable and charismatic, but she was kind of a prick, wasn’t she? The way she stretched her glutes right in front of Ann, the way she flirted with almost all of the actresses, the way she assumed Ann would be free tonight. </p><p>“Maybe I don’t want to spend my evening with a brute like you.”</p><p>Anne threw her head back and laughed. For one blissful moment, they laughed together. Then it shattered.</p><p>The door swung open with a bang. Anne’s head snapped to the side, her eyes wide. Ann had never seen her like this before - like a panther before it pounced. A short brunette sashayed her way straight to the stage manager’s table. She dropped a pair of cufflinks, clanging sharply against the rickety metal table. </p><p>“Left these at mine,” the brunette said, a smirk tugging at her lips. </p><p>Ann had never seen Anne wear cufflinks before. She looked around, but everyone was making a point <em> not </em>to look at the pair now whispering hotly. Was this Anne’s sister? She looked a little older, perhaps, but she was short and dainty and sensual in a way Anne decidedly was not. She watched Anne usher the stranger over to the door, hovering slightly over her as the brunette traced her finger over the buttons of Anne’s dark shirt. When Anne put her hand on the woman’s hips, Ann nearly gasped out loud.</p><p>Was Anne Lister <em> married </em>? Surely not, if she’d left some of her clothes at this woman’s house. Perhaps they were separated. Maybe this was a girlfriend, someone close enough to Anne to slip into the rehearsal room uninvited. Did she have a key?</p><p>
  <em> Rule 3: Your show crush won’t last past opening night. </em>
</p><p>Anne had told her this rule, rather cheekily; one of these teasing things she was always saying to Ann. Depending on the day, these comments alternated between driving her mad as making her giggle. Today, Anne’s words echoed in her ears. Of course she was only interested in Ann because of the proximity. The countless hours spent together. The intoxicating intricacy of the production, the play itself, the connection between Anne and Ann.</p><p>Stupid, stupid, stupid. Ann crossed her legs tightly, turning her head to her script. The words swam before her eyes. She wanted desperately to wipe the tears away, but she was afraid of being noticed. Instead, she let them fall silently, marring the crisp black letters on page eighty-seven.</p><p>When she finally composed herself enough to raise her head, Anne was giving blocking to an actor who’d been out yesterday. She was on the stage with her back to Ann, her thick binder cradled in one arm, the other arm gesturing broadly across the stage.</p><p>“Then you come downstage, kind of lost and hopeless -”</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>“Then you cross left, all mopey and -”</p><p>“I’ve got it.”</p><p>“Then you get an idea and -”</p><p>“I don’t need acting notes from you,” the actor snapped.</p><p>“You don’t?” Anne answered coolly. “I couldn’t tell.”</p><p>With that, she hopped from the stage and slipped back into her seat. It surprised Ann, this little interaction. She always thought of Anne as having a temper, a rather short fuse. That actor had been downright disrespectful, and Anne hadn’t batted an eyelash. It would help if Anne was always shouting at everybody, but she didn’t. She shouted plenty, sure, but not all the time. It seemed Ann was the only one to engender such rage. Of course, Ann thought sullenly, Anne couldn’t bear the memory of her own infidelity, and she took it out on Ann.</p><p>Guilty fucking bastard. Ann hadn’t done anything wrong, but she was the one being punished. Anne Lister was a cheater, and that was enough for Ann. Though she’d decided against any future dalliances on principle, now Ann set her intentions in stone. This was for her own protection. A woman like Anne Lister could break her heart. Perhaps she already had.</p><p>By the time evening came and Anne dismissed the cast, Ann had grown cold. It was always bloody cold in this theatre, but now she was chilled to the bone. Mrs. Rawson shuffled out, and Ann stood. The stage manager whipped around.</p><p>“That drink?”</p><p>“No,” Ann said simply, afraid that saying anything more would reveal the quaver in her voice.</p><p>“Tomorrow.”</p><p>“Off tomorrow,” Washington offered, across the room, sweeping the stage.</p><p>“Pick a day,” Anne said, her grin wide and her eyes dancing.</p><p>“I don’t think so,” Ann said, turning and rushing out of the building.</p><p>It wasn’t until she got in her car that she allowed herself to sob.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Is this... anything? I got inspired to try something I usually don’t - drawing out some angst! Do we hate it? Let me know what you think.</p><p>Thank you for reading!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Anne checked her watch and the door. She flicked through her notebook - two and a half pages of questions. With a sigh, she leaned her head back to study the lighting grid above them. This was going to be a long one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Immediately to Anne’s left, as always, was Washington. He was a good man in a storm, seemingly unflappable, and quiet almost always. Ideal qualities for an ASM in her opinion, which only meant he’d be leaving her soon. She was already mourning the loss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the next table, set perpendicular to theirs, was Eliza Washington, the teenage daughter of her ASM, who had finagled herself into a sound design gig. Anne had fired the last sound designer for his tasteless comment about Chekhov. Eliza was quick building cues, but Anne was leery of crossing family lines. Shibden used to be a family outfit, but that well had long-since run dry. Even Ann’s cousinly connection with Mrs. Rawson was a tad unsettling. Family lived in an entirely separate sphere from work, and Anne liked to keep that way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Next to Eliza was the sometime-sober set designer, Isabella Norcliffe. She’d grown up with Anne, one of the few tomboys in their part of the world, and now Tib helped her old friend around the theatre. She had a day job - something with horses, Anne thought - but she made time to supervise set construction on the weekends. It was hard to find full-time designers and harder to find the money to pay them. Her sharp undercut and faded flannel left very little question about her sexuality, and Tib liked it that way. Anne only wished she would forget their teenage fumblings and leave their sordid, on-again-off-again relationship in the past.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tib was leaning over her table, towards the one parallel to Anne’s, and bickering with the ne’er-do-well prop master, Hinscliffe. There was always some disagreement between them, but Anne barely paid attention. They were so </span>
  <em>
    <span>boring</span>
  </em>
  <span> - specifics about furniture and drawers and wall art. Hinscliffe was a simpering sort, always smirking and speaking to Anne like some little girl in need of guidance. She kept looking for reasons to fire him, but finding another prop master would only be another headache.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Next to Hinscliffe was perhaps the only sane designer they had: Elizabeth Cordindingley. Elizabeth was the den mother of the theatre, the gentle, supportive, often exasperated voice soothing weeping actors. Anne would never forget the time one of their actors broke her nose falling onstage, and Elizabeth managed to convince her she was alright, she could finish the show, and that she looked </span>
  <em>
    <span>better </span>
  </em>
  <span>with her nose bent. A miracle worker, plain and simple. She’d been a part of the fold the longest, one of Anne’s oldest confidantes. They never discussed of the night Elizabeth had shown up at Anne’s door in the pouring rain, a few weeks after her husband passed, nor did they mention the time Elizabeth had caught Anne with her head between Mariana’s legs in the green room. Some things were unspoken.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the adjacent table, completing their little square, sat only Frances Pickford. She’d taken up the rest of the table with an elaborate plot of the lighting grid. She chewed on a pencil, a tangled bun falling apart at the nape of her neck. Yet another young-adult dalliance Anne would like to forget. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was one dalliance she wasn’t quite finished with, however, and that woman had squeezed into the S.M. table next to her. Her blonde hair fell in perfect, curly waves, and her green slacks fit her perfectly. It was all Anne could do not to stare down the collar of her shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ann had been off for the past few days, strangely quiet in the few rehearsals she had attended. The young woman pissed her off, but Anne still liked having her around. Sure, she had poor taste in plays, and she’d said that thing about Anne’s work not being “art,” but something about Ann compelled her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t just physical. Of course, Ann Walker was a remarkable specimen; that’s why Anne had pursued her in the place. More than that, she was so clever. Every now and then, her timid voice would offer up a suggestion that would completely solve whatever problem they’d run into onstage. Occasionally, when Anne was near tears from frustration, she’d offer up this sympathetic smile, and Anne’s heart would melt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why did Anne badger her so much? She couldn’t figure it out. She wanted to be sweet to this girl. To woo her and charm her and compliment her. But every time Anne opened her mouth, she found herself making some snappy comment, wounding Ann in some unforeseen way. She couldn’t get it right, and that made her furious. Sometimes she picked fights for no reason at all - anything to see the fire burning in Ann’s eyes, the way they had that day in the prop closet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ve got to have the skis,” Anne said tersely, her mind circling back to the meeting going on around her; “there’s a whole bit about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The chance of us getting period-correct skis is,” Hinscliffe grimaced, that simpering smile of his, “well, it’s not likely.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is part of the whole character,” Anne shot back; Rawson was late, likely to miss the whole meeting as was her usual way. She didn’t mind - it was easier calling the shots like this. “By the way, your prop gun looks like a toy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s for </span>
  <em>
    <span>rehearsal</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Hinscliffe shot back. “The real piece will be ready next week.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you’re done beating Mr. Hinscliffe about the ears,” Washington said with a teasing smile, “can we move on to set?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Absolutely,” Anne said, leaning back and crossing her arms. “Objections, Miss Walker?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her blonde investor had grown quiet in the last few days. She hoped to needle Ann a little, check that that fire still roared within her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“None,” Ann said simply.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Missing the energy of their arguments, Anne nudged Ann’s shoulder playfully. She longed to have Ann in her arms, her lips on her neck, Ann’s legs around her hips. For now, a shoulder nudge would do.  a playful reminder of the sparks between them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ann nudged back, and Anne smiled. She tapped her pencil on the table, then nudged Ann once more. Her shoulder met air. Anne whipped her head to the side - Ann’s shoulder nudge had been her scooting her chair further away. Anne swallowed dryly. Had she overstepped?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Tib leaned forward, “I’ve got this perfect set of chairs coming in. The painting is finished, and we’ll do the finish on the flooring after tomorrow’s rehearsal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think I like the shutters,” Anne said thoughtfully; she knew Ann rather liked them. “Could we change them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you want,” Tib said slowly. “Maybe we could ask Mrs. Rawson.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ann,” Anne said sharply, turning her attention to the young woman doodling next to her. “Do you mind if we change those shutters?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not a bit,” Ann said easily, returning to her sketch of dark-haired costume designer across from them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then she winked. At Anne. Quite clearly at Anne. That was - surely that was undeniable, right? Anne had 20/20 vision, a point of pride in fact, and she knew a wink when she saw one. Anne uncrossed and re-crossed her legs, her left foot brushing against Ann’s calf. She saw a blush rise on her cheeks, but Ann angled her legs away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was Ann upset with her? Had she moved on to Cordingley? Anne certainly hoped not. Cordingley was decidedly straight, for one thing, and Ann belonged to her, for the other. This greedy possessive thing was nothing new, but Anne felt it viscerally with this one. She wanted to make Ann hers, properly and for the long term. Sure, she shouldn’t. Yes, it was a terrible idea. No, they didn’t have a chance in hell. But Anne couldn’t change the way she felt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anne,” Marian’s grating voice called. “You forgot your phone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did I?” Anne said, rolling her eyes and turning away from the square of the meeting. Washington could finish the notes. She got to her feet and and sauntered to her sister in the doorway. “Thank you so much for bringing it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t sound particularly grateful,” Marian said sardonically. “I could’ve left it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am oh so very grateful, Marian dear,” Anne said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Now can I have my phone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe.” Marian held the phone above her head. “Maybe you have to earn it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my God, Marian,” Anne snapped. “I am at work!” She leapt up, catching the phone and bumping Marian back a step. “You’re such a child.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bit of trouble at home?” Tib teased across the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut your trap,” Anne said sullenly, dropping back into her seat. Washington nodded to her. “I think we’ve done as much as we can unless Tib and Hinscliffe have settled their feud.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the designers in question dissolved into a squabble about window dressing and the meeting broke up, Anne turned to the blonde artist next to her. She draped a long arm over the back of her chair - perhaps it was a bit forward, but Anne couldn’t help herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re very good,” she said, tapping Ann’s paper with her knuckle. “These are very good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ann made a small sound of appreciation, and her pencil kept moving across the paper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m surprised you don’t mind us changing the shutters.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know more than I do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never stopped you before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe I learned my lesson.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe I wish you hadn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anne,” she sighed, her voice lilting in that exasperated sort of way. “You’re impossible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are,” Anne teased. “I’m trying to flirt with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lost cause,” Ann breathed, but Anne saw the way her pencil faltered. “I won’t entertain this much longer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not?” Anne affected a pout, allowing her thumb to glide over Ann’s shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because you’ve got a girlfriend. A few, it seems.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, shit. Now it made sense. Those stupid cufflinks. The ridiculous night and the loneliness of her empty bed. Anne kept trying to swear off Mary, but it was so difficult. Especially when Ann flitted about the theatre like a siren built to ruin her. Even more so when Ann vacillated between flirtation and fury. Not anymore, though, Anne thought dully. Now Ann wouldn’t give her the time of day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Today - earlier - had she thought </span>
  <em>
    <span>Marian</span>
  </em>
  <span> was her - surely not. Tib’s crack about “home” didn’t help. Much more likely for Anne to live with a partner than her ridiculous sister. Why had Marian even shown up? She hated the theatre, hadn’t given it a spare thought since they were teenagers. This was why she locked the bloody door - to keep the distractions out. Anne made a mental note to get Mariana’s key from her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, she’d made a proper mess of this, hadn’t she? Maybe if Anne could explain it, they could go back to the way things were. If Ann could just listen, Anne would set everything right. If Ann would stop packing up her bag and -</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait! Can I -” Anne shook her head once, embarrassed by her own outburst. “Can I please explain?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think so,” Ann said simply, getting to her feet. Was Anne imagining the sadness in her eyes?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please. You don’t understand -”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I understand perfectly,” Ann said. “I - uh, I think I’ve been - I’ve spent too much time here.” Ann nodded, just once, as she exhaled. “I’ll see you for the producers’ run and final dress.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ann, wait.” Anne followed her to the door. “Seriously, it’s not -”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Goodbye, Anne.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for reading!! And for all your lovely comments yesterday!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Sit by me, Annie!” Mrs. Rawson crowed as Ann came into the theatre. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ann froze, her bag still on her shoulder. The matriarch of the Rawson arm of the family tree terrified Ann. She’d been easy to avoid in rehearsals, but these final runs were wide open. The theatre was empty - all actors backstage - save for the designers and director. Washington retreated backstage as well, and Anne to the tech booth. Ann had come to the producers’ run last week, and she’d sat through the entire play on pins and needles, next to this grey-haired dragon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d barely convinced herself to come tonight, if she was honest. The more time she spent away from Anne Lister, the better she felt. Her mind was clear when she could hide from those brown eyes. Tonight was the final dress rehearsal, then tomorrow opening night. After that, Ann planned to extricate herself from the theatre. She couldn’t do it anymore - this aching in her chest at the sight of the stage manager and the guilt in her mind at the memory of those brunettes who seemed to know Anne so well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Annie,” Mrs. Rawson drawled. “You’re a deer in headlights. Get over here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Miss Walker!” A sharp voice came from above. “Would you join me in the tech booth?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ann craned her neck upward, squinting her eyes against the bright fluorescent work lights. Faintly, she made out a slim figure among the lights. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Forgive me,” the voice called, footsteps clanging along the metal of the catwalk just above Mrs. Rawson. “Ann had expressed interest in getting a peek behind the stage manager’s curtain. Tonight is the perfect night for it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps that’s not the only thing Annie will get a peek into,” Mrs. Rawson said, before breaking into delighted laughter. Ann blanched. “Sorry, ladies.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sweat pooled under Ann’s arms as she made her way up the rickety staircase to the tech booth. She’d only been up here once, with that lighting designer, Frankie. It was tiny, crammed full of equipment that Ann barely understood. There was a single, long window directly across from the door, overlooking the theatre. A large table sat directly beneath, on which sat two massive contraptions, which Frankie had explained controlled the lights and sounds. A dated desktop computer stood to the left, and, tonight, Anne’s script binder sat in the very center. There were two stools, and Ann sank into the one on the side. Compared to an evening with Mrs. Rawson, this felt like paradise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hope you don’t mind,” Anne said jovially as she descended from the ladder on the far end that connected the booth to the catwalk. “I thought you seemed rather upset at the old lady’s suggestion, wanted to offer you a refuge.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Ann squeaked, her mind already cloudy from the proximity; in their days apart, she’d managed to forget the pull she felt to Anne Lister’s arms. “She - uh - she makes me - oh, I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Scared of your own shadow,” Anne joked, and Ann remembered why she’d kept her distance. “Just a joke, darling.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Darling? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ann fumed and pretended to text Catherine. Who the hell did Anne Lister think she was? The familiarity was so disrespectful. No wonder she had two fucking girlfriends at once - more, if what Frankie had implied was true. Luckily, Anne had plenty to do before the rehearsal began, and she rushed out of the booth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ann watched Washington move props about the stage, various actors warming up their bodies and voices, even Tib bounding into the room for a few last-minute adjustments. This was why she loved theatre, she reminded herself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This</span>
  </em>
  <span> was where it all started - the tension before the show, the preparation, the precision. Ann didn’t love theatre because of some smooth-talking S.M. She could find this kind of joy anywhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here I am,” Anne said, out of breath and sliding into her seat with a flourish. “Hope you didn’t miss me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ann rolled her eyes, and Anne winked as she slipped a clunky black headset over her ears. She shifted the earpiece closest to Ann away from her ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can still talk,” Anne offered, her hands moving purposefully across the boards. “If you like. Can get pretty boring.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you do up here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All sorts.” Anne shrugged and held the headset’s mouthpiece close to her lips. “All set?” She waited a beat, during which Ann assumed someone spoke back to her - Washington maybe? “Alright, that’s house lights. Fade. Send him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just like that, the show had started. Ann furrowed her brows as Anne moved through the first few pages with ease. Light changes, sound cues, the show swirled around her, around the both of them. Earlier annoyance forgotten, Ann watched in awe as Anne spoke into her headset, turned pages, drove the entire show with a gentle, guiding touch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are you speaking to?” Ann ventured when the stage manager sat back a bit, hands on her knees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anne clicked a button on her headset.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Washington,” Anne answered. “On a bigger show, we might have folks doing set changes or even working the boards. Usually not though. I’m a bit of a control freak.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve gathered that,” Ann said with a smile. “Am I distracting you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not a chance. I could call this show with my eyes closed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think Mrs. Rawson would rather you didn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anne laughed and shook her head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know there’s an old superstition - bad final dress leads to a great opening.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If we have a bad night tonight,” Anne said slowly, “we’re more likely to have a good show tomorrow, where there are actual people in those seats. It’s almost always true.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You theatre types,” Ann admonished with a giggle. “Your own species.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lister!” Mrs. Rawson bellowed from the audience. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” Anne called out the window, already scribbling in her notebook; she clicked her headset again. “Washington, the whisky is clear. Can we fix that for tomorrow? Thank you, sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re very polite,” Ann offered when she saw the stage manager click the headset once more. “If that were me, you might’ve blown your top.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only because I want to get under yours,” Anne said smoothly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know I’m trying to give you a proper compliment,” Ann snapped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So am I.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ann flushed, shaking her head and lost for words. Quickly, Anne was busy again, scribbling in her notebook, watching the actors and pressing buttons. Over the course of the show, Ann noticed the even rhythm with which Anne guided the show. She noticed her long fingers hovering over the “GO” button, holding a lighting change for an extra beat as an actor held a moment. Then speaking to Washington, changing the sound, and writing in her notebook at once. Ann had to remind herself to close her mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It looked amazing,” Ann said as the actors came out to the muted applause of the tiny audience.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Anne groaned, flicking on the work lights. She slid open the window and yelled at the actors, “be out of here in twenty minutes, or I’ll skin you alive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cast laughed and shuffled away. Anne turned back to her notebook. It was a perfect moment for Ann to leave, to slip out and be done with the whole thing. One step closer to freedom from the intoxicating light in Anne Lister’s eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She couldn’t resist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is art,” Ann said softly, one hand on Anne’s shoulder. It was the most they’d touched since the first day they met. “What you do. It really is an art. I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right, well-” Anne coughed and shook her head. “Thank you.” She laid one broad hand over Ann’s, still facing forward. “Would you like to have dinner with me? Or just a drink?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Ann said without thinking, regretting it immediately. “Maybe just that drink?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anne’s smile lit up the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nearly an hour later, they trundled down to the closest pub. It was bitterly cold, and they huddled together on the sidewalk. Ann couldn’t shake the feeling she was playing with fire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To murder mystery,” Anne said, clinking her class with Ann’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To murder mystery,” Ann said, the cheap wine already warming her. “It went really well tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Anne lamented. “It’s awful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Ann giggled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, it’s bad luck for starters.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on,” Ann said, squeezing Anne’s hand. “It just means you’re all set for tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it means we’ve had our opening tonight, and tomorrow we’ll stumble or something will break.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re so dramatic,” Ann teased.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am in the theatre,” Anne said with a dramatic flourish. “Besides, I won’t have my good luck charm tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sincerity in Anne’s eyes terrified her. Ann held her gaze for a long moment, then broke away, focusing on the condensation on Anne’s glass. The bar bustled around them, and a thousand scenarios ran through Ann’s head. If only she could get those strange women out of her mind - was one of them waiting at home for Anne?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tactful as ever, Anne cleared her throat and diverted the conversation. The evening was warm and full of possibilities. Ann let herself be talked into a second glass, then a third. By the time they braved the cold night, it was actually morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Share a cab?” Anne offered, pulling out her phone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Isn't there someone waiting for you?” Ann said, having already ordered one for herself. She was a little shaky on her feet, and Anne put a hand on her forearm to steady her. “I’m not into sharing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ann, please,” Anne said seriously; her face was flushed from the drinks, but her eyes were sincere. “I’m not seeing anyone. I - I think you may have gotten a different idea.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who were those women?” Ann asked. “With your cufflinks? And your phone?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My ex. My sister.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You live with your </span>
  <em>
    <span>sister</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Anne said with a chuckle. “And my aunt and my father. It’s a long story.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I'd like to hear it sometime,” Ann said, wrapping a cold hand in the wooly warmth of the lapel of Anne’s overcoat. Her phone buzzed in her pocket - her driver must be nearby.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d like to take you out again,” Anne husked, her eyes darting between Ann’s eyes and her lips. “I’d also like to kiss you, if you’d let me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The world stood still as Ann weighed the same options she had that day in the prop closet. She inhaled, steadied herself, and spoke the truest words she could find.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I kiss you right now, I’ll fall in love with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anne’s lips parted, but before she could speak, Ann dove inside her waiting cab. She turned around long enough to watch Anne bite her lip, shake her head, and smile. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for reading!! I think I’m more insecure about this story than anything else I’ve written, so your feedback has really meant the world. Thank you!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Anne clicked through the light cues six times. She double-checked every prop and set piece and costume. She even left out water bottles and tissues and mints for the actors. In short, she was scared shitless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been over a year since she’d had a good final dress, and she was dreading the inevitable screw-ups tonight. She rolled up her black collared shirt and loosened her matching black tie. Folding in half at the waist, she allowed her muscles to loosen. She hung there for a moment, gently swaying. Then she screamed into the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was her ritual before performances, and it usually helped. Tonight, she still felt tension coursing through her veins. She screamed again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Been in the wars, ma’am?” Washington asked, sweeping the stage behind her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“After a fashion,” Anne answered, slowly rolling herself upright.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The actors trickled in slowly, full of their own insecurities and rituals. Anne retreated to the booth, triple-checking her rig. She’d just given the thirty-minute warning when a knock came from behind her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just came to say break a leg,” Ann said, appearing every bit like the angel sent to save Anne from this dark, tech-booth hell. “Got you these.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She held out a single red rose and a small bottle of whisky. Anne tilted her head as she accepted them. This was overly romantic to say the least. What happened to the shy girl last night who refused to kiss her?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Anne said. She examined the label of the expensive bottles “May need this by the end of the night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wanted to - uh, well,” Ann looked down, “it’s a bit of a goodbye gift, as well as opening night. I’m - I’m not sure theatre is my scene.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Forgive the pun,” Anne teased, grinning at the blush spreading across Ann’s cheeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, but - well, I don’t fit in here. I’m - I won’t be back,” Ann said softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Most actors orient themselves around objectives. They focus on a single, specific goal for their character in the play, in each act, in every scene, in the minute beats and lines and actions. Anne wondered how they could act like real people if they knew what they wanted all the time; she never did. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tonight, however, her objective came into startling focus: keep Ann Walker. It was this desire that consumed her and, inexplicably, shot her hand out to grab hold of Ann’s wrist. Their eyes met, and Anne’s plea caught in her throat. She needed to know if Ann was serious, if the rose was intentionally romantic or if it was all the store had. She couldn’t live in this doubt, this limbo any longer. She’d keep Ann Walker only if she wanted to keep Anne in return.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Anne said sincerely. “I hope you’ll reconsider.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ann nodded, and Anne released her wrist. She turned toward the door, then back to Anne.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Could I sit up here? Tonight? I - I would hate for you to be without your good-luck charm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anne broke out into a massive grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Abso-fucking-lutely.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Twenty minutes into the show, when the lead actor dropped their line, Anne pounded her fist onto the table. Ann caught her hand and scooted her stool closer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright,” she soothed. The scene continued, almost as if Ann had willed it. “The audience didn’t even notice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The show’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>got</span>
  </em>
  <span> to go well,” Anne hissed, without thinking. It was the first time she’d said it out loud like that, but it was the truth. The house was packed, and if they made a poor showing, Shibden might very well go under, especially without the Walker finances. “I mean -”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Ann said evenly, squeezing her hand. “It will. Have a bit of trust.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After that, the rest of the show passed with only minor hiccups. It wasn’t as close to perfection as last night’s rehearsal, but Anne wasn’t bothered. Ann’s presence was like a comforting blanket, her hand alternately running over Anne’s forearm, around her shoulder, along her back. When the curtain call finally came and the audience got to their feet, Anne exhaled for the first time in days. Soft lips pressed to her cheek, and a gentle voice curled in her ear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve done it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>We’ve</span>
  </em>
  <span> done it,” Anne said sincerely, turning to face Ann. “I really enjoyed having you up here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I enjoyed it too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Anne could say another word, they were both being summoned downstairs, congratulated, hugged. Anne lost those blonde curls in the crowd, and the relief of the evening washed over her. They were going to be a success. Shibden would survive another show. They might even make a profit, if they were lucky. Anne sagged against the wall of the lobby, letting the crowd thin around her. Washington appeared.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll lock up, boss,” he offered. “The whole family’s here, and they’d like a tour, if you don’t mind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” Anne answered tiredly, her adrenalin rapidly ebbing. “Thanks, Sam.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She trudged up to the booth, then back down, her arms laden with her backpack, her coat, and Ann’s gifts. She paused in the empty lobby to pull herself together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was looking for you,” Ann’s voice came from behind her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Anne said stupidly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wondered if I could take you up on that drink,” Ann said. “You were going to tell me about your family.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> it with this girl? Anne wondered. She had the worst possible timing. Sweet and encouraging when Anne was distracted, cold and aloof when Anne wanted her. Anne was tired, ready to crack open this whisky and take off her pants. She snapped at Ann without thinking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going there now if you’d like to meet them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I - well, I don’t - I mean, I’d hate to intrude.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come meet them,” Anne said grandly, slinging her backpack around her shoulders. “We’re just around the corner.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Forget it,” Ann said irritably. “I was trying to be nice. It’s - well, it was nice knowing you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, that same old objective reared its head. Anne couldn’t stop herself. She finally understood how actors made their characters come to life - sometimes an objective was so strong, so intrinsic, so unavoidable that there was nothing to do but submit to it and act. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anne grabbed Ann’s wrist as she passed, spinning her into her arms and crashing their lips together. She pressed Ann into the wall, kissing her fiercely for a single, long beat. Then she stepped back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come home with me,” she said softly. “If you’re serious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ann stepped forward and took Anne’s hand in hers. They shared an unsure smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the first few minutes of the short walk to Anne’s house, neither of them spoke. Anne had made all these mistakes before - bringing home a girl too soon, blurring the lines of professionalism, shagging Ann Walker against all better sense. It was different though, wasn’t it? They weren’t strangers anymore, not by a longshot. In fact, Ann was the first person to really understand Anne in a long time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happens next?” Ann asked, breaking the silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, we do this fifty more times or so,” Anne joked, steering the conversation from the ever-shortening distance between Ann Walker and Anne’s bed. “Mrs. Rawson and the designers will go, but the rest of us will do this over and over again until we want to kill each other. Then we’ll have about ten more performances.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ann giggled and nudged her shoulder; their hands found each other. For the first time in a decade, Anne wasn’t embarrassed to hold a woman’s hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If Mrs. Rawson is gone, who’s in charge?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me, of course,” Anne said as she fished out her keys and unlocked the door. “It’s my show now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think it always has been,” Ann teased, following her inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anne rolled her eyes and took a quick assessment of the house - shabby, as usual. Creased newspapers littering the kitchen counter to their left, a small store’s worth of shoes littering the foyer all around them, a single light illuminating the living room to their right. Anne did not allow herself to look at the stairs directly in front of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sister,” Marian called. “You’re home late!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, well, Miss Walker’s with me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anne set down her flower, her whisky, her backpack. She hung Ann’s coat next to hers, then padded into the dark kitchen for two short glasses. No reason to share her gift with Marian, of all people.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Please </span>
  </em>
  <span>tell me you haven’t corrupted her as well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She hasn’t,” Ann said gamely, sitting on the couch next to Marian. “I brought some whisky tonight and she offered to share.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anne tilted her head in acknowledgment, a silent agreement to this lie, and poured them each a glass before sinking into her favorite armchair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The show was great,” Marian said earnestly. “Whatever magic you did really worked.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Say it again, Marian,” Anne teased. “Miss Walker wants to leave us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, but you can’t! You’re - I've never seen the place so packed. When was the last time you got a standing ovation, Anne? Two years ago?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anne nodded silently, dulling that old pain with a sip of whisky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think theatre is for me,” Ann said demurely. “Though I had a lot of fun.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span> fun,” Marian said, rising to her feet. “If you can stand being around that one,” she tilted her head toward her sister, “you’ve already dealt with the worst of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you!” Anne called sarcastically as Marian left the room. “I don’t know how I put up with her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do you?” Ann asked, curling her legs up onto the sofa.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the dim light, Ann Walker was perfection itself. Her short blue dress, the pale curve of her legs, the gentleness of her eyes as she studied Anne from across the room. Anne crossed her legs self-consciously and loosened her tie. She could only imagine what a mess she looked tonight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My family is - well, they’re all imbeciles for starters,” Anne said; the lack of response from any of the house meant they could consider themselves alone. Anne felt a twinge of stage fright - would Ann even want her in this controlled environment? Did she need to start a fight if she wanted to get her upstairs? Did Anne really want that? Did Ann? “My aunt is a lovely woman, basically a mother to me my entire life, so I’m happy to have her. The rest of them, though - well, it’s all very complicated with my Uncle James’s estate and this ridiculous old house. Long story short: I can’t kick them out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you like them,” Ann teased.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m a glutton for punishment.” Anne rolled her eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I must be too,” Ann said quietly. “If I’m here with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess I’m - well,” Ann shook her head, “last night, you said you wanted to kiss me.” Anne nodded, her face burning at the memory of the rejection. “And last night, I was afraid. Afraid of the booze and the circumstances and that you wouldn’t want me in the morning. But - well, I - after tonight, I think - I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I’m not frightened anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anne’s eyes widened, her lips slightly parted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ann nodded, her deep blue eyes so serious and sincere Anne nearly cried. Instead, Anne crossed the room and knelt at Ann’s feet. She took Ann’s small hands in hers, looking up at this ethereal creature. Why did this feel so heavy? Anne cringed as she realized - she cared about Ann. In a serious kind of way. A heartbreak-potential kind of way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ann nodded again, this time her eyebrows raising slightly. With a gentle smile, Anne curled one hand around Ann’s face, thumb stroking the plane of her cheek. The moment felt impossible, exhilarating, overwhelming, terrifying. Anne leaned in and caught Ann’s lips in a soft, slow kiss. She slipped her tongue between Ann’s, warmth suffusing her once-tired body. This felt nothing like the kisses they’d shared before - not hungry or angry or passionate. Ann moaned softly and threaded her fingers through Anne’s hair. This felt like coming home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a long beat, they pulled apart, and Anne held Ann’s face in her hands, both of them grinning widely. Ann licked her bottom lip then bit it, a move so innocent and excited that Anne wasn’t sure if she wanted to ravish this girl or worship her. Perhaps both. Briefly, Anne considered taking her right there on the couch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Married?” Marian shouted from the next room. Anne groaned and shot to her feet just as her sister pounded into the room. “Have you seen this? John Booth and Eugenie?”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for reading!!</p><p>Just one more, my friends. I so appreciate y’all’s support, and I’m glad to hear you’ve been enjoying the story. Have a great weekend!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“I have not,” Anne said curtly, biting back a smile as Ann giggled beside her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s ridiculous,” Marian ranted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this an ex?” Ann asked gamely, her face still flushed and smiling from their kiss .</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hardly,” Anne answered with a roll of her eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just don’t understand how </span>
  <em>
    <span>John Booth</span>
  </em>
  <span> can get engaged before I do! That’s - it’s fucking madness!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Marian,” Anne said gently, “maybe you should get to bed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a muffled scream of frustration, Marian stomped up the stairs, thumbs flying furiously across her phone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>That</span>
  </em>
  <span> is why I never bring anyone home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you?” Ann asked, standing and wrapping her arms around Anne’s neck. “What about that woman with your cufflinks?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t bring her round here anymore,” Anne said honestly, her hands falling to Ann’s waist. “I’ve been done with her longer than you think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ann smiled and tilted her chin upward; Anne dipped her head to kiss her again. The heat returned this time, and Anne found herself backing up until she hit the banister of the staircase. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shall we go upstairs?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Giggling and shushing each other, they raced up the stairs. Ann stopped at the top, turning her head right and left. Anne took her hand and tugged her into her bedroom; she closed and locked the door with a flick of her wrist. She pressed Ann into the solid wood of the door, relishing the feeling of their bodies molding together. It had been too bloody long. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their lips met again and again, Ann’s hands sliding along her forearms, up to her neck, into her hair. Anne pulled their hips flush with one hand, the other cupping Ann’s face. She longed for six more hands, a dozen eyes, thousands of years to spend exactly like this. Anne pulled away, grinning and panting; she looked to her rumpled, unmade bed, then back to Ann. Taking her hand, she pulled Ann from the door, both of them nearly giddy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re so beautiful,” Anne whispered, pulling Ann close again and slipping one hand under the hem of her dress. “You’re all I think about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anne,” the younger woman breathed, “I need you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anne grinned and kissed her, palming Ann’s tight little ass and grinding their hips together. She dragged down the zipper at the back of Ann’s dress, breaking away long enough to turn her slowly around and kiss the back of her neck. The soft, dark fabric slipped to the floor without a sound, and Anne just had to see her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I had no idea,” Anne said reverently as she twisted Ann in her arms. “If I’d known…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? You'd’ve brought me home ages ago?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anne thought for a moment, taking in the stunning woman before her; her hands already itched to touch her. She nodded, eyes wide.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Definitely.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ann giggled and brought her hands to Anne’s tie, pulling it free with an arousing snap. She worked open the buttons of Anne’s shirt, all the while pressing soft kisses to every inch of newly exposed flesh. Usually, Anne wasn’t much for being undressed. She’d much rather keep herself covered as she unwound whatever woman had landed in her arms. Her chest tightened as Ann pushed the shirt from her shoulders and hooked her fingers in Anne’s belt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We should be even,” Ann said saucily; “don’t you think?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Anne breathed, surprising herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she couldn’t do it alone, not here with her thoughts and Ann with her own. She cradled Ann’s delicate face in her hands, kissing her deeply as Ann unfastened her belt, then her trousers. They both started at the clanging sound of the two hitting the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clad only in her cotton sports bra and her lucky navy blue boxers, Anne felt a bit foolish. Compared to Ann, she was all wrong. Too flat and long and hard. Nothing like this specimen of perfect loveliness in front of her. She reached for Ann instinctively, meaning to cover herself with Ann’s body and distract them both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Last chance to leave,” Anne said softly. “If we go any farther, you’ll break my heart.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking up at her with those honest blue eyes, Ann was perfection itself. Confidence and innocence and sincerity wrapped into the most devastatingly beautiful package. Ann kissed her again, this time hungrier, and pulled her back to the bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They knocked together clumsily, in the way that new lovers do. Anne’s head spun with the joy of it. She kissed Ann’s jaw, her neck, the sharp line of her clavicle. Ann twisted beneath her, arching upward obligingly as Anne unfastened her bra. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, my God.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was like the first time Anne ever saw another woman’s breasts in real life. Her brain short-circuited; her mind went entirely blank. She froze for a moment, mouth agape, before diving in to take them in her hands, between her lips. Anne worshipped slowly, deliberately, all the while grinding her thigh between Ann’s legs. Slender fingers tangled in her hair, holding her close. Anne teased the waistband of Ann’s panties, snapping the elastic playfully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“May I?” She asked theatrically.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ann pushed them down her legs, kicking and laughing as Anne pulled the ruined lace off and tossed it behind her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There she was - naked and perfect and wanting Anne. She reached forward and took Anne’s hand, her thumb passing gently over the back of it. A shiver raced along Anne’s spine as she realized she might actually fall in love with this girl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“C’mere,” Ann said with a smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their lips met again, their bodies pressing together together. Maybe it was the euphoria of the night or the sheer beauty of Ann Walker, but Anne fancied they were made for each other. Everywhere that Anne felt she was too flat or too hard, Ann was soft and giving. Every hill and valley of Ann’s body complemented her own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, Anne traced her hand over Ann’s chest, along her side, over her hip. Their hips already moved together in that natural way, but Anne didn’t want to push it. If she went too far and screwed this up, she would never forgive herself. Gently, she slipped between Ann’s legs, teasing her wet center with the faintest of touches. Feeling Ann’s arousal on her fingertips was the closest she’d been to heaven.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anne,” Ann breathed, “can you-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Anne hovered over her, kiss-swollen and half-delirious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Ann spoke those words she’d said in the prop closet all those months ago:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anne studied Ann’s face as her fingers passed nimbly over her core. She pressed forward, just gently, then - Ann moaned. Anne grinned. They hung like that for a moment, the entire world narrowing to this moment, the connection of their bodies, the intertwining of their souls. Then Anne kissed her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was sublime - it was delicious - it was not nearly enough. Anne knew she’d spend the rest of her life counting the seconds between the last time she touched Ann Walker and the next. Ann held her tightly, her small hands grappling across Anne’s broad back as Anne slowly filled her over and over again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was so quiet - whether that was intentional or if Ann really was as innocent and sweet as she seemed, Anne didn’t know - and Anne longed to hear her screaming and begging. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not tonight</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she scolded herself. Tonight was about tenderness and understanding and beginnings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You feel so good,” Anne breathed in her ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“More,” Ann gasped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A second finger joined the first; Anne pressed her thumb more firmly against Ann’s clit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like this?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Ann groaned, urging Anne’s hand with an insistent roll of her hips. “Like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Faster?” Anne asked, a smug grin stretching across her face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, God, yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anne kissed her sweat-slick neck and complied. Her arm started to burn with the effort, but Ann’s desperate, breathy, impossibly soft moans spurred her on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anne,” she chanted, “Anne, Anne, I - fuck, Anne, yes!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anne busied her lips with the underside of Ann’s jaw. Her own arousal pooled between her legs. Had Ann been crafted from Anne’s fantasies?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re - fuck,” Ann panted. “Yes, oh, my - yes! God, Anne, please. I’m so - I’m - don’t stop, I - yes, Anne, oh, fu- yes, yes, I’m -”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ann arched upward, freezing for a moment in midair. Then Anne felt her core clench, her hips judder, her fingers curl, then a muted, wordless cry escaped her lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re so beautiful,” Anne whispered as she slowed. “Fuck, you’re so hot. You did so well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Holy shit,” Ann exhaled, going limp; Anne pulled back and sat on her heels. “Why did - I can’t - holy shit, Anne.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anne chuckled and fell onto the bed next to her; lying on her side she studied Ann’s profile and traced her fingertips over Ann’s belly, still rising and falling as she caught her breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Ann said emphatically. “I’d - God, I think I’d forgotten how good you are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How good </span>
  <em>
    <span>we</span>
  </em>
  <span> are,” Anne said, then kissed her bare shoulder. “Takes two.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s never been like that before,” Ann said to the ceiling, almost too quietly for Anne to hear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Anne whispered; Ann turned to meet her gaze. “You’re incredible.” Ann blushed and shook her head; Anne curled a hand around her hip and squeezed. “I’m serious. Please believe me when I say that I </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> ask this: will you stay the night?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ann’s face registered confusion, and Anne’s heart skipped a beat. Had she misread it? Overstepped? Would Ann be gone just as quickly as she could find her clothes? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Again</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the snide voice in Anne’s head sneered, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’ve done it again.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Forget it,” Anne interrupted, sitting up. “I’ll call you a cab.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hold</span>
  <em>
    <span> on</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Ann grabbed her hand and pulled her backward. “I’d love to stay the night.” She smiled softly. “But I’m not quite ready to sleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not?” Anne purred, her mood instantly lifting as she pulled Ann close again. “Twice at once is my speciality, baby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure,” Ann laughed, “but I meant you.” She toyed with the waistband of Anne’s boxers. “Don't I get a turn?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to,” Ann said seriously. “But only if you want me to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two choices. Refuse Ann and keep her walls up - safety and loneliness. Allow her and risk everything - vulnerability and hope. Something about Ann’s soft smile, the sincerity in her eyes, the maddening, shapeless patterns of her fingertips. Anne sighed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ann smiled and wrapped an arm around Anne’s shoulders, the other teasing gently between her legs. Anne closed her eyes and rolled her hips, catching Ann’s rhythm. This would do the trick, she thought peacefully. Boxers on, Ann below her, no exposure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then she stopped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anne?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Anne asked, bewildered and opening her eyes. “Is something wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you lay on your back?” Ann bit her lip, as if preparing to be turned down. “It’s not exactly sexy for me to - like, I wish I could - you know, but I - well, I think talking is so - I mean, I just - I really want to be good for you.” A jolt shot straight between Anne’s legs. “I’d really like to taste you, if you’d let me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, fuck,” Anne husked, dipping her head to kiss Ann again. Slowly, she rolled them over, allowing Ann to settle between her legs. They broke apart and breathed for a long moment before Anne continued. “Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” Ann smiled widely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anne was already pushing off her shorts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ann giggled and kissed her again, moving lower slowly, kissing the length of Anne’s neck, the flat plane of her sternum, the soft curve of her toned stomach. Anne watched her go, skin burning with every delicate press of Ann’s soft lips. When Ann’s small hands pushed her knees outward, Anne let her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing to me?” Anne asked the ceiling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I’m falling in love with you,” Ann said softly; Anne jerked her head upright. “I’ve never wanted anyone this badly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The low, keening sound Anne made was the only answer she could muster. Ann smiled and kissed her belly once more before settling between her legs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anne saw stars. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tender hands curled around her thighs, pulling Anne impossibly closer to the lips and tongue that unraveled her at breakneck speed. She wrapped her fingers in those blond curls, relishing the softness of Ann’s halo and the gentle bob of her head. Anne didn’t try to guide her, not even once. For the first time in decades, Anne simply let herself be touched.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That didn’t mean, of course, that she had to stay silent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There,” she moaned when Ann found a particularly sensitive spot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes! Yes, just - oh, fuck,” when Ann closed her clit between her lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, please, Ann, please,” as Ann teased her with impossibly light strokes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m so- unh, I’m -” as that familiar flame blazed even higher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m - you’re - oh, my - you’re going to - fuck - you’re going to make me come.” Beside the overwhelming pleasure, Anne registered surprise. How long had it been?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ann hummed softly, nodding her head in Anne’s hand. Anne seized, tensing then letting the waves of pleasure wash over her. She collapsed into the sheets with a satisfied groan. Faintly, she was aware of Ann crawling back up her body and hovering over her. Eyes still closed, Anne wrapped this perfect, tiny, incredible woman in her arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re amazing,” she breathed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are,” Ann whispered in her ear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It hung there, between them. Three words. Anne ached to say them - did they linger on Ann’s tongue as well? Anne couldn’t be sure, and she wouldn’t ruin this moment. That could come later, along with the dates and the family-meeting and the life-merging. For now, it was enough to enfold Ann Walker in her arms, their sweaty, naked bodies pressed together, and fall asleep. It was more than enough.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for reading!!</p><p>I thought about making you all wait for this last installment but... I’m just as impatient! Hope you all enjoyed this little world - I sure did.</p><p>Have a great week, and thank you!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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